


soft as silk

by winterbones



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP, au except it's not, i am never calling him aegon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 05:52:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11937693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterbones/pseuds/winterbones
Summary: jon's heard about dany's meereen dresses, of course. but seeing is another matter all together.





	soft as silk

The small council chamber fell silent when Jon entered, Missandei and Tyrion’s hands whipping toward him. Missandei hide a smile discreetly behind her hand but Tyrion—damn him—made no attempts to hide his pleased smile.

“I hope the Northern lords weren’t giving you too much trouble, Your Grace?”

In truth, he _had_ needed to pen a response to Lady Mormont, but when he’d left the throne room to do just that he had a suspicious most knew it for exactly what it was—an excuse. Jon flexed his hand, but didn’t answer the obvious goading. “A word, my queen?”

Daenerys, unruffled, nodded. “Excuse us.”

With a softly muffled chuckle Tyrion hopped from his chair and reached out a hand to escort Missandei. “Come, my lady. Best we vacate.”

The only person who hesitated was Jorah Mormont, standing behind Daenerys in his white Kingsguard cloak. His look was not dark, but neither was it approving.

“Ser Jorah,” Daenerys said, voice brooking no argument.

“My queen.” He bowed and within another minute Jon stood alone in the room with his queen. Spring had already descended on King’s Landing, bathing the city in warm pinks and golds. Tyrion, used to the warmer temperatures of the south, said that it was still rather could for the city but Jon sweltered in anything more than simple trousers and his tunic and vest. Dany, who also tended to run hot, had begun making the shift to looser, airy gowns.

She stood slowly, Meereenese silk sighed and shifted with each slight movement, almost as if it every part of it was designed to draw the eye, thin enough to just hint at shadowy curves. As he had earlier in the throne room, Jon found himself staring. He’d known, of course, that in Essos it was warmer, that even as Westeros sunk into a deep winter the land across the Narrow Sea remained warm and bright, and Daenerys hadn’t been wearing her heavy coats and breeches as she brought the slaver cities to heel but—

“Is something amiss?” Dany wanted to know, a smile hinting at the corner of her mouth.

Both she and Missandei had agreed that, in deference to being Meereen’s queen first, she ought to dress in Meereenese style. _Now_ Jon had understood why Tyrion had seemed so pleased with the idea. The dress was made of silk and beading, a fine gold band holding it to her neck, so thin it looked as if a good tug and it would simply split apart. It cut low on her chest in a deep vee, and left a diamond-shaped exposure of flesh across her navel, flaring out into a pleated skirt. He knew that if she turned he would only the pale slopes of her curves, the curvature of her delicate spine.

Jon had nearly swallowed his own tongue, when he’d arrived at her rooms to escort her.

He stepped around the table and came toward her, walked cautiously, as if afraid of waking himself from a dream. “You’re so lovely,” he said, because it was true.

“You’ve said that to me in front of others before,” Dany pointed out. “Was that all?”

“No.” He was close enough to touch now and settled his hands just above the flare of her skirt, the tips of his fingers tingling where he met heated flesh. The first time he’d felt it he’d been alarmed, worried for her, but she had laughed softly and explained she always ran warm. Now he enjoyed it, like touching his hand to banked embers.

Jon kept one hand on the slender curve of her bare hip, eyes on her shifting violet ones, and reached for his sword belt with his free hand. Dany’s brow only went up an imperious inch and that was what he liked most about her, that she didn’t shy away, that while each and every uncouth thing he did might scandalize the Southern court it only stirred his queen’s curiosity.

“ _This_ is what you wanted to discuss, my king?”

“It’s not really a discussion,” he admitted. The clatter of leather and steel bucklers echoed around the room as Longclaw dropped to his feet.

“Oh?” So much meaning, contained in such a small word. Dany leaned back until she reclined against the sturdy table behind her. “Well?”

Jon grinned. He was considered a cautious man, a quiet man, solemn, dedicated to the safety and protection of the realm. _Good King Jon_ , they called him. It was Daenerys Targaryen that was fire and blood, a wildfire, a burning star of passion and ambition and command. But once Jon had been a young man, with a quick temper, who answered every challenge leveled at him—there were still brothers in the Watch who remembered those early days in the training yards. But Dany roused that part of him, the fire and passion that he had thought buried with his first death, left behind in that great, stretching darkness. If he had loved for nothing else, he would have loved her for that.

“I’ve come to bend the knee, my queen.”

Dany’s gaze skirted to the closed door. But Jon knew the blotch of pink of her cheeks was from thrill, an excitement she knew she shouldn’t feel. “My Kingsguard are posted just outside the door.”

“And the door isn’t locked. Shall I stop?” But he knew the answer before she spoke, already bending down to one knee. Because they complimented each other in this way, Jon and his wife and queen. Daenerys anticipated a challenge as much as he did.

“You may continue,” she said, in that haughty tone that always tempted Jon to strip her bear. And in these silks, it wouldn’t be hard.

He grabbed fistfuls of her skirt, revealing pale, slender legs inch by inch, until Dany had to reach down and gathered the folds herself, holding them against her side. He ran a hand down one leg, the callouses of his palm making her shiver and sigh, and gently eased it over his shoulder, peppering kisses against the side of her knee and the inside of her thighs. Against him, Dany particularly vibrating in anticipation. She hadn’t been shocked the first time he’d done it, but had been shocked after when it had become apparent how much he enjoyed it, that it wasn’t merely a perfunctory step to getting what he wanted, and feeling her like this was heady and intoxicating, the spicy musk of her arousal filling his senses until all he could see and feel and know was her.

Her fingers sunk into his hair as he sunk into her. Gentle kisses at first, teasing and ghosting over her heated center, feather light caresses of his tongue, until Dany was rocking against him, her hips canting, the silken folds of her skirt falling around him like a curtain as she gripped the edge of the table. His name escaped her lips on a strangled gasp, her attempts to muffle the sounds growing more and more futile. Jon reached around and gripped the back of her leg, felt silk rending against his blunt grip. He wasn’t concerned about that, his tongue sinking into Dany’s hot center, where she was wet and warm and willing, swallowing the living flame of her, her breath coming up in short, abbreviated pants and moans.

He could have gone on like this for hours, and had, keeping them locked in this hazy dream-world of heat and simmering passion, the only sounds Dany’s whimpers and his lips moving across her, drinking her, swallowing the rich taste of her.

But Dany was impatient. This had been brewing between them since he’s brought her into the throne room to meet the Meerneese delegates. There had been no denying the fire in his eyes when he’d looked at her, took in all that silk and bare flesh, wolf enough to feel the burning need for a good hunt. If not for the eyes on them Jon would have dragged her back to their rooms like the barbaric Northman some of the court whispered he was and Dany had known it, practically daring him to try it.

Now she tugged him upward, the silks of her skirt crushed behind them, pieces of it hanging from her hips where Jon’s tugs had torn the yielding fabric. He gripped her underneath her knees, lifted her, until she was settled just on the edge of the table. Dany tugged at his trousers, deftly plucking at his braises, until he sprung free and her slender fingers could curl around his cock. He hissed out a wet breath against her collarbone as she languidly stroked him, knees pressed tight against his thighs to keep him against her, as if he would ever have been tempted to leave.

“ _Qogralbar nyke, Ionos_ ,” she panted against his temple, pulling him tight against her. Jon had learned just enough Valyrian to have her words set a fire in him. He tried to be gentle in his lovemaking—Dany had been handled too roughly and too harshly throughout her young life, he knew, and he would never allow himself to be counted among the men who had treated her poorly—but he could not be gentle now and Dany fierce tugs told him she didn’t want him to and with a rough, low sound he pushed into her.

That moment of stillness, the whole world going quiet, his entire body feeling like it had been pushed into the heat of a crackling flame. The first time he had thought his hair might catch, and now it was the only time he felt truly warm, as if she melted the ice that had clung to him since his resurrection.

“Jon.” There was no command in Dany’s voice, only desperate, and he was the only one allowed to see her like this—not a queen, but a woman, his woman, eager and needing his touch. He stroked her high, round breasts through the silk, her nipples peddled, begging his touch. He bent over her, working his hips against hers, and caught it between his teeth. Even though his vest and tunic he could the sharp crescents of her nails.

She canted her hips forward, drawing him that last, impossible inch into the fiery clasp of her body. Dany whined, a low hoarse cry, and pitched forward. Something hit the ground with a hard, metal clang—a wine goblet, Jon realized, a strangely lucid thought wandering through his feverish brain.

It was a fast, frenzied fucking. Jon heard the sounds of King’s Landing below from the open window, felt the shift and sigh of ruined Meereenese silk against his thighs, knew the entire court knowing exactly what the king was doing to his queen behind this closed door.

He swallowed impossibly, barely able to move. Dany gasped, head falling back, and mewled his name when he licked at the ridges of her arched throat. She snaked a hand between to rub at her clit, her entire body going rigid against him, her muscles clamping around his cock and—gods, Jon had to squeeze his eyes to keep from coming, against the white-hot stars the burst at the corner of his eyes. He wasn’t going to last—

Dany came with a high scream, dragging him against him, crashing him against her wet silk and slick body, legs tightened around him like a vise, eyes fluttered close. Her breasts heaved, brushed across his chest, and Jon released his bruising grip on Dany’s grips to grip to brace himself against the table, his body shuddering and pulsing, his breath escaping past his gritted teeth, his hips snapping, Dany’s entire body shaking with the force of his thrusts.

She cupped his cheeks and brought his mouth down to hers, her violet eyes gleaming like two jewels, bright with dragonfire, her tongue slipping past his lips and teeth in a dance that was familiar but never tiring. Jon let himself go, coming apart in his queen’s arms, the tight, hot ball at the base of his spine releasing like a bowstring.

Somehow, they managed to lower themselves to the floor before they ended up hurting themselves, Dany’s dress in tatters and tears of pale, silvery silk and Jon’s trousers tangled around his ankles. She stroked his fingers through the riotous curls of his hair as he lay against her side, lips brushing across her hip.

“Well,” she drawled, her voice still breathy and soft from her cries, “this was an enlightening conversation.”

Despite the ache in his side Jon laughed and nipped at the sweet, perfumed swell of Dany’s hip. “You have no one to blame yourself, my queen. You knew _exactly_ what you were doing, wearing that dress.”

She didn’t deny it, and couldn’t stop herself from looking quite pleased with how everything had turned out, rumpled and well-loved on the floor of her small council chamber. “This dress is ruined now. How am I supposed to get back to my rooms without horrifying all of King’s Landing?”

“I think Tyrion left a cloak.” Speaking of the Hand, Jon didn’t want to imagine that kind of smug, knowing looks he was going to suffer the next few days. “There on the chair? It’s too big to be his.”

“He’s such a clever Hand.”

Jon twisted and crawled slowly up her body, stopping to kiss her at her navel, between the valley of her breasts, her chin, her kiss-swollen lips. “Next time you and Missandei decide to air out a dress like this I would appreciate a warning.”

“Oh? So it’s all my fault, then?” Back was the queenly voice, cool and assessing, and he somehow managed to look regal laying in a puddle of ruined silk “And the fact that Daario Naharis was the leader of the ambassador’s escort had nothing to do with this?”

He hid a smile in her hair, gently easing himself between her legs. “That was my duty.”

“Oh?”

“I had to make sure that they understood the former Queen of Meereen was well cared for and wanted for nothing here in the cold, inhospitable seven kingdoms.”

He stole the taste of her laugh straight from her lips.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. this was meant to be posted for jonerys smut fest on tumblr  
> 2\. as always i am a day late and a dollar short  
> 3\. anyway this is for my girls on twitter who as, as always, enables of the highest order  
> 4\. i haven't written fic in so long  
> 5\. my god  
> 6\. the single line of valyrian was pulled from an online translator god bless those people


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